


this feels right (and i'm letting it)

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Reunion, Spoiler Alert - Freeform, it didnt pass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: Standing on the rectory doorstep, now, pissed as fucking anything—it’s a far cry from Keira Knightley and Matthew McFadyen in the rain against a beautiful English country house aesthetic. And if her memory serves her right, Keira Knightley wasn’t wearing a nun’s habit from a late-night fancy dress shop.fleabag/priest, and a reunion
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	this feels right (and i'm letting it)

**Author's Note:**

> this is just something quick I knocked together to fill the fleabag void in my heart. enjoy, kudos/comments always appreciated, and for the record i don't necessarily think they should get a reunion but if they did, i would give them this.
> 
> title - from 10am gare du nord by keaton henson

It’s not the reunion she pictured. Despite herself, she has pictured it—usually when she’s feeling particularly low and self-deprecating and ironic, inserting herself in wine-tinged _Pride and Prejudice_ re-runs and breathlessly imagining _he_ is Colin Firth emerging from the lake, a declaration on the tip of his tongue. She doesn’t even like _Pride and Prejudice,_ but thinking of him prancing about in regency breeches and fucking her senseless in a servant’s pantry is enough to stop her from typing _Barack Obama speech compilation_ into YouTube.

Standing on the rectory doorstep, now, pissed as fucking anything—it’s a far cry from Keira Knightley and Matthew McFadyen in the rain against a beautiful English country house aesthetic. And if her memory serves her right, Keira Knightley _wasn’t_ wearing a nun’s habit from a late-night fancy dress shop.

 _This is hilarious,_ she thinks, grinning drunkenly at her reflection in the window. Perfect, even. The man she’d been sort of seeing had just dumped her for being too aloof and insensitive, like she was always thinking about something else (which she was, but irrelevant). She’d drank probably half a bottle of gin and was stumbling numbly to the bus stop—emphasis on _the_ , so much emphasis, there’s still shattered pieces of heart gathering dust round there—when she saw it, _perfect._ Veil, little cross necklace, everything. Absolutely hilarious. And why not? Surprise him. He’d love it. He would find it hilarious, too, love the irony of it.

She’s not thinking about how much her broke her. She’s not thinking, full stop, because if she _was_ she’d remember that it’s been six fucking horrible months and he demanded that she never see him again. She’d probably realise that trying to seduce a priest in a nun’s habit is actually pretty crass and that maybe he’d hate her more for doing it. But…it’s her _thing,_ making terrible decisions and humiliating herself. It’s been an awful long time since she cried through someone’s letterbox. She’s losing her touch.

So she presses his doorbell, clumsily adjusting her habit. It’s only when the light switches on, a warm, muted glow, and her gaunt red-lipstick face is startingly clear in the glass, that she thinks _shit, shit, shit._

The door takes an age to unlock and her heart-rate rises on the verge of cardiac arrest. _He_ opens it, and the golden glow behind him illuminates his silhouette like a prophet.

(Fucking irony.)

He doesn’t look properly at first, rubbing his eyes. It’s past eleven o’clock. She remembers his penchant for early nights, but how he’d always sit with her in the dark.

Her smile is lazy, yet somehow giddy. It’s the anxiety, probably. “Trick or treat?”

Realisation crosses his face like an epiphany (fucking irony) and the way his face rapidly changes from horror to disbelief to anger to horror again would be comical if it wasn’t so fucking sad. She considers launching herself into some nearby shrubbery (flatten Pam’s begonias, she’d get a kick out of that) just so she doesn’t have to deal with his disappointment and fury and rejection. Seconds pass, and she remembers how she was the only one to ever render him speechless, not always for good reason, and her smile becomes less giddy and more rigid.

She thinks that maybe this is the worst thing she’s ever done—because she cares about him, actually cares, and had stuck to her promise for six months—before his mouth loosens into a disbelieving and resigned smile. He runs a hand across his jaw (oh, fuck you, and your beautiful _jaw)._ “Fuck you.”

“You can’t say that. I’m a woman of God, now.” She gestures to her gown, running her hands down the long, black skirt. “See?”

He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re incorrigible. And I’m furious, by the way.”

“Furious that I’ve found religion?”

“I second my earlier point: fuck. You.” They stand in silence, staring at each other, and his eyes might as well be crucifying her. The shrubbery idea seems more appealing with every passing moment before he steps aside, gesturing her into the light.

(The irony is getting a bit fucking boring at this point.)

Much like her journey to this very moment, she’s guided by her limbs rather than her brain. If she had any ounce of common sense or self-respect she’d turn back round, but she’s never claimed to be in possession of either of those things. Her life would have panned out very differently otherwise.

She doesn’t anticipate the ache in her chest when she walks into his living room. His sofa and his coffee table, the open bottle of whiskey and the empty glass, hundreds and hundreds of books. She hates how it feels and looks like home when it was never her home at all. His flatmate never made her feel all that welcome (and she’s not talking about Pam, though the point still stands in that regard).

“Are you drunk?” He asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

Her face is serious. “No.”

“Right. Because this is what people do when they’re completely sober?”

“There’s a strict no-drinking policy at the convent.”

“Of course.” He hums. “The backdoor is still unlocked. I’ll meet you out there in a sec.”

She hears some shuffling from upstairs, and she’s really not in the mood to have a passive-aggressive confrontation with Pam. She has enough of those with godmother (sorry, stepmother, un-fucking-fortunately). She nods, sharing another second of fraught eye contact, before stumbling out onto the patio.

The air is sobering and his bench is damp, cold water bleeding through the fabric of her gown. The whole garden is walled off by a tall wooden fence now, and she wonders if it was to keep the foxes out or _her._

She can’t believe this is happening. If she closes her eyes she tastes summer, bitter and botanical, like gin and tonic and his mouth. When she opens them it’s February again and she wants the ground to swallow her whole—let her fade away amongst the dirt, closer to her mother, to Boo.

 _Fuck._ She’s been thinking about them a lot, lately. She’s been thinking a lot about death again. The feelings come and go like waves on the Cornwall coast—the ones she saw on holiday, decades ago, clutching Claire’s hand as they chased them and ran back to shore again. The harder she tries to push them away, the more they consume her.

She’s knocked out of her reverie when the backdoor closes. His footsteps are quiet and he sits down next to her with a sigh, wrapping her fingers round a glass of water. His hands linger round hers for just a second too long—he quickly retracts, burnt. Like she’s a forest fire shaped as a woman. Well, she does have the uncanny ability of setting everything she loves alight.

(Loved. Loved. _Loved. Loved. Loved._ Past tense. She has to remember. Past tense. He is not hers to love, never was.)

“For the record,” he says, looking out across his lawn, swallowed in midnight blue. “Nuns aren’t supposed to wear lipstick. Or show that much ankle. Frankly, it’s outrageous. And definitely sacrilegious.”

She snorts a laugh and he can see his smile. It’s another thing she has the uncanny ability for. “The Church needs to catch up. Have you heard about this thing called feminism? Women are allowed to be sexy now.”

“I grant you that, and I’m fully on board with women embracing their uh…sexiness? But a nun has to keep her sexiness for God.”

“Like a priest, you mean?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!"

“No, fuck _you,_ and for the love of God can you please take that habit off!”

“Do you want me to take it off because it makes you feel guilty, or do you want me to take it off because it makes you feel guilty and you want to fuck me?”

His expression is more serious now. There’s a polaroid in her head of the last time they saw each other and if she felt particularly dramatic she’d compare it to a snapshot of one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, because a part of her definitely died when he turned his back. It’s a curse, she thinks. She knows how to love better than anyone but she knows how to lose, too.

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says plainly. “And it’s wrong, what you’re doing. It’s not fair.”

Her response is automatic, like it’s rehearsed. “Leaving me at a bus stop isn’t fucking fair.”

His next words are just as scripted, and his voice is hoarse as he says them. “I know.”

“That’s not good enough.” She replies, her voice jarringly light, smile lopsided. He mirrors her expression and _fuck,_ even though she hates him (loves him) she just wants to run her fingers across his jaw, feel how reassuringly real he is. “I was sad before I met you. When you left, I found newer and more excruciating ways to feel sad. I didn’t need that.”

“I know.”

“And—I know, I know breakups are sad, I’ve been through enough of them. They fuck me up for a bit, but I drink cheap wine and fuck strangers and the self-loathing is still there but the initial sadness isn’t. I feel sad later, because—I’m guilty, or embarrassed, or incapable of being a decent fucking girlfriend. Every single breakup I’ve been through have been completely inward facing because I have never felt enough for somebody to be arsed when they leave. I’m selfish, and pathetic, and horrendously narcissistic in a way that somehow culminates in self-hatred—because I hate myself. I do. I hate myself because I’m not incapable of having a romantic relationship. I’m just incapable of having a romantic relationship with someone who isn’t _you.”_ Her laugh is bitter and utterly heart-breaking. “That’s not fair, is it? That’s not fucking fair.”

“No,” he says, on a long and broken outtake of breath. “It isn’t.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?” She stares at him, trying to read his features. They’re uncharacteristically illegible. “Is this a priest thing? Are you bound by an oath which commands you have to listen to other people pour their heart out but you can’t tell me anything? Do I have to lock you in a fucking cabinet to get you to talk? I could arrange that.”

He shakes his head, his laugh soft. “No, no, it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“The cabinet thing…it works on the basis of forgiveness. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.”

“You’d be right.” She groans, collapsing her head into her hands. This isn’t as hilarious as she thought it would be, staggering down the main street with a carrier bag from the fancy-dress shop. Maybe it’s because she’s sobering up. There’s a heart shattering clarity to her post-bender perceptions that almost turn her away from drinking. _Almost._ Her life is too fucking tragic to stop altogether. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question. But I won’t. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised you didn’t show up sooner. I’m aware of your track record.”

She jabs him in the ribs—the action is accompanied by a frantic thudding in her chest, like she’s slipping into old habits she’s not allowed to have. But he doesn’t spring back, he lets it happen, lets her shuffle closer into dangerous territory. “Fuck you.”

“How many times are we going to say that to each other?”

“Until it stops being true.”

“Never, then.”

“Never.”

(She hates this. Hates how it’s so easy, even though she’s still sat in a fucking habit and he _broke her heart._ )

“I should go.” She says as she stands up, because it’s easier than saying _I want to stay_ and being told to leave anyway. “I’m sorry—about being a nun, everything. I’m sorry I can’t stop being myself.”

“I would _never_ want you to stop being yourself. Never. _Never._ ” He grins, looking up at her. “You infuriate me. You have dragged me to hell and back, probably more than once. But my life would be so much worse if you were never in it. And definitely more boring.” He gestures to her. “Look at you! It’s midnight, you’re off your _tits,_ and you’re at a priest’s house wearing a fake nun’s habit because—you thought it would be funny? Outrageous? You are…you are something else.”

She looks away. This is so far from funny, now—this is a reminder of everything they used to have, everything she used to love about him. He looked at her and didn’t see someone who needed to be fixed. She was interesting, not because she had a kitschy café and a dead best friend, but because she made him laugh.

“I’m not going to pour my heart out.” He says. She nods, wondering if she might cry. “ _Hey._ I’m not going to pour my heart out, because I don’t think I need to. It’s very simple. _I was wrong._ ”

She narrows her eyes, looking back over at him. “About which part?’

“You know which part.” He stands up from the bench and she wonders if he’s going to turn and go inside, but instead he places himself directly in front of her. Sinks to his knees.

(She ponders how ridiculous this must look, a nun and a priest—a woman and a man—in the middle of the night, positioned like this. It’s not poignant to anybody but them.)

She skims her hand across his jawline and his eyes flutter closed, finally submitting.

“It’s not God,” he whispers, “I thought it was God—I wanted it to be God, because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? But I got no moment of clarity when I left you, no sign I was doing the right thing. I was wading through more fucking mud than I was to begin with. A dead crow fell down my chimney. How could that be anything but an omen I was doing something wrong? I don’t expect you to forgive me, but this isn’t about forgiveness. I just…want to be happy. I want _you_ to be happy.”

Oh, _fuck._

“Is this…is this you breaking up with God?’

She feels his smile against her hand. He presses a kiss against her skin and the way her body shudders is definitely ungodly. “We’ve been on the rocks for a while.”

“Is he telling everybody in heaven how I’m a slut for taking his man?”

“Yeah. He is. They’re outraged.”

“Jesus.”

“Him too.”

She laughs, falling to her knees so they’re exactly opposite each other. This: this is the clarity she’s been looking for. She loves him. _Loves_ him. This is very present tense, always has been.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, their lips hovering closer. “And I know he’s my ex now, but I don’t want to push God to the limit by snogging a nun.”

When his hands curl round her neck to pull the veil away, her breath hitches. Over his shoulder, there’s movement at the bottom of the garden. Bright eyes blaze through the dark. His gate clearly has a breach somewhere. He should get it fixed—God knows what could wander in.

She feels herself falling into the kiss, letting their voyeur watch on.

 _No,_ she thinks. _You can’t have him this time, not anymore._


End file.
